


file it away

by incandescentfae



Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: LMAO, Other, blatant use of the peter nureyev alias generator, peter is so sad yall, takes place just after ramses o fuckface is elected
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:28:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24262828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/incandescentfae/pseuds/incandescentfae
Summary: Peter Nureyev is in a two star hotel room in the outer edge of some Venusian city when he hears.
Relationships: Peter Nureyev/Juno Steel
Comments: 12
Kudos: 111





	file it away

**Author's Note:**

> This is....my first finished penumbra fic. I'm honestly not super happy with it and its very short so please bear with me!!!

Peter Nureyev is in a two star hotel room in the outer edge of some Venusian city when he hears. There's a new mayor of Hyperion (truly incredible, that the rest of the galaxy cares so much about the happenings in a city full of empty promises, people, and dreams. Empty eyed citizens with empty stomachs and pockets.) According to the news stream, former mayor Pilot Pereyra is missing, presumed dead...along with the new mayor O'Flaherty's right hand lady, Juno Steel-private eye, detective, and well, many other things.

The very expensive necklace in Peter's hand clatters to the ground, and he makes no move to pick it up.

_Missing._

_Presumed dead._

He gives himself five minutes. Five minutes to break down, to fall to the floor beside the recently dropped necklace, to dig his nails into his palms so hard that they leave small crescent moons behind, to bite his lip until he tastes coppery blood. Five minutes to think of Juno, of his tired eyes (eye, now) and his bitter laugh, and the way that it had felt like coming home each time Juno said his name-in that it was terrifying and slightly uncomfortable, but there was a strange exhilaration to it, a reckless abandon like running the streets of  Brahma had felt. And warm, warm like a voice he refuses to remember, and the golden sunlight that lent a strange beauty to even the shadiest alleys, like the paintings he'd loved in that museum he'd once snuck into.  Five minutes to remember all of this, and then he files it away, forces himself blank and numb and carefully composed. 

He leaves all his things behind him as he watches Venus grow smaller and smaller in the windows of the first flight he could find to Mars.

Logically he knows it to be impossible, but without Juno by his side, the lights of Hyperion are dimmer. He knows, of course he knows, that Hyperion is not nearly as dazzling as it looks, but it doesnt stop the city from being beautiful, in a strange way. All neon and lights so bright that if you didn't look up, you'd think it was broad daylight. Crowds of people walking around, milling about, even though it's late enough that even he feels the exhaustion in his bones by now. It's truly a testament to the residents of Hyperion that none of them seem bothered by the hour at all.

He books himself a hotel, using a throwaway pseudonym-a lazy, sloppy one, without any personality or paper trail attached. Calypso Slate, the first ID he finds in his bag that he hasn't used yet. It doesn't matter. He'll shred it afterwards, and nobody is going to be examining every name in the log in a hotel this busy. It's carefully chosen, not high profile or expensive, but busy enough that it sees a constant stream of faces in and out, that he can be just a droplet in the busy tide of people.  Despite the hour, despite his hesitation, the first thing he does when he reaches his room is pull out his comms. It would be so, so easy to look up the number. To call, to see...

As it turns out, he doesn't have to look it up. The digits are seared into his brain.

_ Hi! You've reached Mistah Steel Investigations!  This is Rrrrrita! We're closed right now, on account of Mistah Steel bein' missing and all, but I know he's gonna be back any day now, so just leave your number and he'll get back to you if he feels like it! Unless you're dead I guess, so don't die before the boss has a chance to get back. Byeeee! _

He hangs up before the voicemail can start recording, and falls backward onto his bed in true dramatic fashion.  Oh, Juno, he thinks almost despairingly,  what on earth have you gotten yourself into now?

There is no sign of him anywhere in Hyperion. He spends weeks combing every inch of it, checking for any sign of his-of Juno. But there is nothing, no sign of the lady himself and no clues as to where he has gone. He's ready to give up.

Somehow, the last place he looks is Juno's apartment. Weeks of searching, but he has avoided the most obvious place like the plague. He won't pretend not to know why.

After Juno had left him, he'd been a mess. There's no point beating around that bush. Oh, he'd repressed it, filed it away, refused to think about it. That didn't stop him from drinking too much, from all his aliases scorning romantic attachment, from the bitter tears he'd tried so hard not to shed. It didn't keep him from watching the news streams of Hyperion city, searching for....for him. Juno wouldn't be able to keep a low profile if his life depended on it, which it probably had many times. And he was there, so often. A case ending with the ever sadistic Proctor dead, after putting Juno through her tests. Engineers burned alive at Polaris Park, and Juno with his threadbare coat turned up, trying to avoid the reporters asking him about the death of Yasmin Swift. Peter would be lying if he said he hadn't watched these streams hungrily, staring at Juno's face, drinking in the sight of him. He looked unwell. Exhausted.

He'd paused the TV, one night, traced his shaking fingers over Juno's face. Then he'd broken the tv. And possibly a knuckle, but more likely that was just badly bruised and swollen, bleeding from the broken glass.

He's broken a lot of things in the past...well, he's not sure how long it's actually been. But none of them are so broken as him, and the fact remains that he doesn't know what he'll do if he actually finds Juno. It's not as if Juno will want to see him, and while Peter can't convince himself to quite hate Juno (himself, yes, but never Juno) he's been feeling rather ungenerous towards him. Or he had been before this panic had gripped his chest and refused to let go.

The apartment is relatively unchanged from the last time he'd been there. It's still messy and disordered, though dust is piling up now from the disuse, and the amount of bottles on the kitchen counter sends a pang through his chest. Juno isn't here. He hasn't been for quite some time. Finally, Peter gives into his instinct, something Juno seems to bring out in him. He curls up on the worn couch, bringing his knees to his chest. It still smells like Juno. Whiskey and martian dust and strong coffee.The tears come to his eyes unbidden, but he doesn't bother to stop them.  For the moment, he is Peter Nureyev, whoever that may be-whoever is left beneath the endless masks. Who is he? A man still in love with Juno Steel. An angel, a terrorist, the monster under a thousand beds. A man only one other person knows, truly knows.

And right now, Peter Nureyev is lost and grieving and terrified.


End file.
